The Story of an Untold Love Part 4

"You are ignorant of the fact that your father embezzled a part of Miss Walton's fortune, and that you and he have since lived upon it?" he exclaimed, with no veiling of his contempt.

I sat calmly, for the idea was too new, and I had too many connecting links to recall, to have the full horror of the disgrace come home to me at once. He did not give me time for thought, but interrogated, "Well?"

Having to speak, I asked, "You are sure of what you say?"

"Sure!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Why, it's been known to every one for years, and I was one of the trustees appointed by the court to look out for Miss Walton's interest in what property your father couldn't take with him!"

"If you are a trustee of Miss Walton," I said, growing cool in my agony of shame, "can you spare me five minutes and answer some questions?"

That I did not deny knowledge of the wrong seemed to raise me in his opinion, for he nodded his head and looked less stern.

"How much did my father--How much did Miss Walton lose?" I inquired.

"One hundred and thirty thousand was all the property he could negotiate, and we succeeded, by bidding in his house over the mortgage and by taking the library at a valuation, in recovering twenty-six thousand."

"Was that amount net?"

"Yes."

"Then in 1879 the amount due Miss Walton was one hundred and four thousand dollars?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Mr. Blodgett," I added, rising. "I am only sorry, after your former kindness, to have given you this further trouble. I am grateful for both." In my shame I did not dare to offer him my hand, but he held out his.

"Mr. Maitland," he rejoined, "I'm a pretty good judge of men, and I don't believe you have done wrong knowingly."

"I never dreamed it," I almost sobbed, shaking his hand.

"It's pretty rough," he said. "I hope you won't show the white feather by doing anything desperate?"

I shook my head, and walked to the door. As I reached it a new thought occurred to me, and, turning, I asked, "What has the legal rate of interest been since 1879?"

For reply he touched an electric b.u.t.ton on his desk, and I heard the lock click in the door by which I stood. He pulled a chair near his own, and commanded, "Come here and sit down," in such a peremptory tone that I obeyed. "Why did you ask that question?" he catechised.

"That I may find out how much I owe Miss Walton."

"What for?"

"To attempt rest.i.tution."

"I hope you know what you're talking about?"

"I'm still rather confused, but so much I can see clearly enough."

"How much property have you?"

"My father left me something over thirty-one thousand dollars."

"Thirty-one from one hundred and four leaves seventy-three."

"And interest," I corrected.

"I thought that was what you were driving at," he surmised calmly. He pulled out a volume from its repository in his desk, and turned backwards and forwards in the book for a few moments, taking off figures on a sheet of paper. "Eight years at five per cent makes the whole over one hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars less thirty-one."

"Thank you."

"Where can you get the balance?"

"I must earn it."

He looked at me with a slightly quizzical expression and asked, "How?"

"That I have yet to think out."

"Any business?"

"I have the offer of a professors.h.i.+p at Leipzig, but that's out of the question now."

"Why?"

"It would give me only two thousand a year at first, and the interest on the debt will be over six thousand annually."

"What do you know?" he questioned.

"Most of the languages and dialects of Europe and Asia, and a good deal of history and ethnology. I am fairly read in arts, sciences, and religions, and I know something of writing," I answered, smiling at the absurdity of mentioning such knowledge in the face of such a condition.

"Humph! And you'd have sold all that for two thousand a year?"

"I think so."

"Well, that only proves that a man had better cultivate his gumption, and not his brains!"

"If he wishes to make money," I could not help retorting gently.

"You're just like Maizie!" he sniffed, and his going back to your familiar name in my presence was the best compliment he could have paid me. "You two ought to have died young and gone to heaven, where there's nothing to do but cultivate the soul."

"I wish we had!"

"Why don't you go to your mother?"

"For what?"

"For the money."

"Has she money?"

"Yes. She had a little money when she married your father, which she kept tight hold of; her mother's death, two years ago, gave her more, and she has just married a rich man."